The Fancy Dancer

reached out to pat the stud’s sweaty neck. I patted it myself, feeling less afraid of horses by the minute. I was very happy to be out on that sunlit track with that little group.
    The mayor of Cottonwood, Del Fahey, gave the loving cup to Will and Larry.
    “Congratulations, boys, we’re real proud of you,” he said. “And we hope you’ll be back next year, and keep them out-of-state horses out of our hair.”
    Larry and Will took one look at the loving cup and guffawed. It was brimming with ice-cold beer. The pre-race publicity in the local paper had mentioned Flint’s fondness for the fruit of the malt.
    “Now that’s real thoughtful of you,” said Will, “and I think I can speak for Flint too.”
    The stud already smelled the beer and came shouldering up to thrust his muzzle into the cup. He sipped greedily, getting foam in his nostrils. Then Will pulled the cup away. “No more now,” he said to the horse. “You’re hotter’n a stove. You wanna founder yourself?”
    Right there on the track, the two men stripped the
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    saddle and blanket off Flint and sponged him off with water. The horse shook himself like a dog and spattered the awards committee, and the people in the grandstand had a good laugh.
    Suddenly the announcer said, in that cozy joking way that announcers have at small rodeos, “Father Meeker, what the hell are you doing out there? We didn’t know you were Irish enough to have a weakness for horses. .. .”
    I started guiltily and gaped at the announcer’s tower. Then right away I realized he was just kidding me. He couldn't possibly know the truth.
    To answer him, I did the only thing I could possibly do under the circumstances, I solemnly raised my right hand and made the sign of the cross before the dripping little stallion.
    The announcer and the packed grandstand burst into laughter.
    And if you mention my name in Cottonwood today, people will say, “Father Meeker? Oh yeah, the queer that blesses horses.”
    a a a
    That night I had dinner at Vidal’s house for the last time. We all pitched in, and made some creditable hamburgers and fried potatoes. Maybe it was my imagination, but Patti Ann seemed to have improved slightly. She kept her clothes on, and was more aware of things. She even spoke now and then. Maybe Vidal’s gentle therapy had had some effect.
    After supper, Vidal and I went in the bedroom, as usual, and shut the door. The shades were down, as usual. But cardboard boxes stood around the room, packed with their miserable little bit of stuff. The poster of the fancy dancer had been taken down from the wall and rolled up, leaving a rectangle on the wall where no dust had settled.
    For the last time, we were alone together in there, with the mattress and box spring on the floor. And suddenly, without our even discussing it, we both had the same feeling that we didn’t want to make love.
    “I don’t want to make a funeral out of this,” I said.
    “I feel the same way,” said Vidal, looking relieved. “It’s no big deal. Let’s just he down and be warm and together.”
    We got down on the bare mattress, with our heads on the mashed old pillows, in which the feathers had been ground to dust, and we held each other very close. The shade moved gently at the window, flapping in a stiff fall breeze. We could hear the wind in the willows, and the whisper of the yellow leaves they were already shedding, and the TV from the next house, and the hoot of a diesel truck passing the town far out on the Interstate.
    “After all,” said Vidal, “it’s only eighty miles from Missoula to Helena. We'll get together a lot.”
    I was silent a minute. “Maybe not,” I said.
    “Why?” said Vidal.
    “I’ve just about decided to leave the state, go somewhere else, go back to school, maybe, or get a job. As a Bible salesman, for instance,” I added bitterly.
    Vidal raised himself on his elbow and looked down at me.
    “I think you’re making a big mistake,” he said. “You’ll hate yourself for it.”
    “Don’t think I can hack it if I stay,” I said.
    “You care about it too much to leave it. You’ll be miserable the rest of your life, a drifter, a misfit. You’ll be like I was after I got out of jail.”
    My gut told he was right. The feelings I’d had all day long at the fairgrounds told me he was right.
    “I’m going away, and I’m gonna fuck around with this guy and that guy,” he said. “But with you, it’s different. You’re lovers with